


He Who Brings Gifts

by PickleandtheQueen



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-10-25 20:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10771686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PickleandtheQueen/pseuds/PickleandtheQueen
Summary: From the Halloween DBZ Fanfic ExchangeZombie Apocolypse AU[Title Inspired by "The Girl with all the Gifts"]to be possibly continued





	1. Chapter 1

In many ways, things were exactly the same as they always had been. He was alone, just him, his truck, and his gun, in the middle of nowhere. His house was the same old boring structure. Sure, he’d added bars over the windows and changed the lock on the door, fortified the roof, but all in all, not much had changed. Except the moat and the fence. Well, it was more of a wall, wasn’t it? But, the damn thing was necessary, even if it spoiled the view.

He sighed, checking to ensure his gun was loaded and he had spare ammo on his belt. Check and check. The truck had plenty of fuel. He would have no issue getting to where he needed to go and back. Even if he ran into trouble.

His first stop was the old town grocery store. He usually was able to find something useful there, or at least something he could make into something useful. He was hoping to find water filters and toothpaste. He sighed, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel and scanning the road ahead for danger. Way out here, far from the city, he did not expect to find much. He’d killed most of what had stuck around, but every now again he found more.

The grocery store was abandoned, yet he waited in his truck for several minutes after killing the engine. Nothing. Alright then. He opened the door and hopped down, slamming the door shut with a little more vigor than was truly necessary. It was not as if it mattered; there was no one and no _thing_ around to hear him. Out of habit, he locked the truck as he shouldered his rifle. He pushed the doors of the grocery store open, recalling the days when they would open and welcome him in on their own. Long, _long_ gone were those times. No sense in dwelling on it, he supposed, proceeding to go about his looting. He filled one of his bags with toothpaste, mouthwash, toothbrushes, floss, and then made his way to the medical section. Gauze, rubbing alcohol, bandages… Might as well take all that he could carry. Hell, might as well fill up the truck. No telling when some band of vagrants actually managed to make their way out here and take all the good stuff. Speaking of the good stuff… Dark eyes landed on the pharmacy. It _was_ the apocalypse. If he wanted to pop oxycodone and percocet to pass the time then so be it…

He was just leaving the liquor store, ready to head back to his house, when he heard it. A scream. His ears flicked, eyes narrowing as he held the keys in the ignition, not starting the engine just yet. Perhaps it was his imagination - no, no, there it was again! Two voices this time. By the time he got over there, it would be too late, he should just - the engine roared to life, and he threw it in drive, speeding through the streets. Expensive bottles of liquor clinked and clattered in the backseat along with his more practical supplies as he searched for the source of the sound. It didn’t take him long to find it.

A small herd of zombies - probably fifteen or so -  shuffled in their grotesque, ambling run after a small woman, a bundle held in her arms. He slammed on the brakes, the truck screeching to a stop even as the woman tripped, falling flat on her face, the bundle in her arms flying towards him as he leapt out of the truck, gun in hand. The bundle - it was a kid, he realized, made a break back to the woman, but he intercepted it, grabbing it by the pants and tossing it into his truck. The child yelped, making a move to get out but froze as he snarled, cocking his gun and turning back to the woman. She had struggled to her feet, but couldn’t move very quickly, her ankle twisted. Her terrified, fevered eyes met his, and then fell on the child in his truck.

“Get down,” his voice was hoarse with disuse, and he cocked the rifle at the nearest zombie. The woman’s eyes widened, and she dove to the ground behind him as he fired the first shot. The zombie’s head exploded. Next round. _Three, four, five_ _…_ He was thankful he had a semi-automatic, counting the rounds left in his magazine as he fired. _Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen._ Done. He let the silence grow around them for a moment, long ears straining for sounds beyond those of the two idiots he’d just rescued.

They were in his truck, the child clutched in the woman’s arms, and both were huddled against the passenger side door. The woman had a hand on the door handle, expression flighty.

“I ain’t gonna hurt ya,” he growled, “wouldn’t have wasted the bullets.” He climbed in, revving the engine. The child sniffled, and the woman looked as if she were ready to throw both herself and her child out the door, but the child offered him a small smile.

“Thank you for saving us, Mister…?” He grunted, turning his truck around and pulling out of town. “Um… I’m Gohan. What’s your name?”

It had been so long since anyone had asked him that, since he had felt the need to say it outloud, or even to himself, that he had almost forgotten.

“Piccolo.”

“That’s a nice name, sir.” Piccolo grunted. It felt odd having someone with whom to converse, and he flicked his ears. “Mommy, aren’t you going to introduce yourself to Mister Piccolo?”

There was silence aside from the engine, not that Piccolo particularly minded. They hit a bump, and his guests bounced on the seat.

“Chichi,” she said after a moment. “Thank you for saving us.” There was caution in her voice. Smart. He was a giant stranger with a semi automatic rifle and a truckful of scotch and rum and whatever other liquors he’d found in the dead stores. And then there was also the small issue of his being an alien.

“Can’t in good conscience let y’get eaten.”

Chichi did not offer anything else, merely tightening her grip on Gohan.

“Where are we going?” the boy asked, and Piccolo blinked. He had not really considered that. It was not as if he could have humans living with him, not really. His nutritional needs were entirely different from theirs. He had a garden, but it was more for something to do and to make fuel for his truck than anything else. Besides, where would they sleep? And he didn’t even like people. He’d always been a loner. That was why the whole zombie apocalypse was really more of an inconvenience than anything else for him.

“Back to my place for now. Get you both cleaned up and rested.”

He also really ought to make sure neither of them had been bitten, he realized. Humans weren’t immune like his people were. How many times had one of those things gotten a hold of him when he got in over his head with how many he could shoot? He’d lost count. But humans… He glanced over at them after pulling up to his wall. The kid had a bandage on his left forearm. “Wait in the truck,” he grunted, hopping out and grabbing the chain that he used to open the gait from the outside and hitching it to the front of his truck. Back the truck up. Gate raised, hooked in the place at the top of the wall. Unhook the chain. Drive through, and repeat with the chain on the inside of the wall to close it.

“Did you make this?” Gohan asked as he turned off the truck and helped them both out of it. Piccolo nodded. “You’re really smart, Mister Piccolo!”

He felt his face flush, but did not verbally respond.

He really didn’t want to ask about the bandage, but it would be better to find out now before he risked getting attached to them. He’d probably have to shoot both of them. He pursed his lips, lifting the gun to point it at his unexpected guests. The trigger was left alone, untouched.

“You’ve got a bandage on your arm. Why?” Chichi moved faster than he would have thought possible for a human, especially one with a twisted ankle, placing herself between her son and him. Her gaze flickered to the rifle in his hands.

“We’ll just leave. We’re fine on our own.”

“He got bit.” It wasn’t a question. He already knew the answer. Looking at the little boy really was not something he wanted to do; shooting a kid was not something he wanted to do.

“Just let us go,” he might have found her attempt at intimidation comical - she barely reached his chest standing at her full height, but there was something in her eye that screamed ferocity. Like a tiger, or even one of the dragon gods from the stories his uncle used to tell him when he was young.

“When did he get bit?” Did Chichi not realize that if her son had the virus, he would soon cease to be the child she knew? That watching him turn would be the most painful thing in the world? That the boy wouldn’t hesitate to eat her alive when he _did_ turn?

“Six weeks ago,” came the helium-pitched whisper from behind her. Piccolo frowned, dropping the barrel of the gun down.

“That’s highly improbable.” Kid ought to be a stinking, rotting monster by this point. The woman’s stance did not relax, but Gohan slipped out from behind her legs. Piccolo watched him warily as he undid the bandage.

“Here, see?” Gohan held out his arm, his mother’s hand on his shoulder preventing him from moving any closer. Piccolo pursed his lips; he really could not see the wound worth a damn from where he stood. Chichi was not about to allow him closer to the child while he held his weapon, and he was loathe to relinquish its protection. His frown grew, creasing old scowl lines around his mouth. He removed the magazine and slung it over his shoulder. He could see Chichi watching him warily as he approached, as he crouched down to the kid’s level to get a proper look.

“Don’t touch him,” she hissed, shoving his hand away. There was fear in her voice. He raised his lip, revealing long fangs.

“Listen, I don’t want to hurt either one of you, but if you think I’m going to risk a zombie turning in my yard, you’re outta your damn mind.”

“Mom, it’s okay,” Gohan whispered, allowing Piccolo to look at the wound properly. It was ugly, probably a bit infected, but it was healing. Jagged strips of flesh missing with a definite ungual pattern present. But healing. New flesh fighting through the puffy, reddish inflammation. Zombie bites did _not_ heal. And the transformation from fleshy, sentient being to walking necrotic tissue took under two weeks in every humanoid species affected by the virus. The wound spread out, growing up the afflicted limb until the dead tissue made up the entire body. He stood with a grunt and opened the back door of his truck, pulling out a bottle of antiseptic and some bandages.

“Hold still.” He could feel Chichi breathing down his neck as he cleaned and dressed the wound. He wanted to snarl at her to give him space, but there was something about her that set his teeth on edge. Instead, he focused on the child. “You swear on your life this is six weeks old?” Gohan nodded, face pinched with pain. “On your mother’s life?” The boy nodded again. “Fine.” He turned to Chichi. “What about you? Were you bitten too?”

She shook her head, and he noticed that she and her son had the same soulful brown eyes and thick lashes, the same small nose.

“Just Gohan,” her voice was hoarse, and he thought she looked close to…tears. “We got away, and we ran. And we’ve been running ever since. We’re trying to get to Capsule Corp.”

_Capsule Corp_. His ears pinned, eyes narrowing and lip curling.  

“The people trying to make a cure or a vaccine from _my people_ ’s blood.”

Chichi winced, and he heard Gohan shift uncomfortably. Namekians were immune, for whatever reason.

“We’re friends of the family,” Chichi bit her lip. “It’s the safest place in the world now. And Bulma _will_ find a way to fix this.” He supposed that was not inaccurate. From what he remembered from the news before the Internet and electricity stopped making out to his remote location, the folks at Capsule Corp had successfully isolated whatever the hell it was that made humanoids so violently susceptible to this virus. And enough namekians, in an attempt to dissuade the rumors that they’d somehow created and spread the virus like some sort of medieval curse, had volunteered their DNA to the scientific powerhouse.  

Piccolo exhaled with a huff, and returned to his truck, unloading bags and handing them to his guests. Chichi balked when he tried to hand Gohan a bag full of booze, snatching it away. “ _What_ are you _doing_?”

Piccolo closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“You idiots will never make it to West City on foot, and if by some act of Shenron you _do_ , both you and the kid’ll be shot at the inspection if his arm looks the way it does. Your best bet is with me. Heal and rest up. I’ll get you to Capsule Corp.”


	2. Planning the Route

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Chiccolo Week's "Apocalypse" Day

The kid’s arm was looking much better. Piccolo hadn't wanted to believe it at first; he’d been so sure that the kid would turn. It had been two weeks since he’d rescued them from the ghost town zombies, which made it a total of eight weeks since the kid claimed to have been bitten. He finally felt as if he could sleep without his semi-automatic in his hand. Gohan and Chichi were still asleep when he shuffled into the small living space outside of his bedroom. They were both curled up on his couch in front of his worthless television; he’d kept it just to see if power ever came back online. He’d dug out old blankets and given them to his unexpected and not entirely wanted houseguests. He supposed they were fine; Chichi had managed to find salvageable foodstuffs in the dried goods section on the abandoned supermarket, things he would never have thought to grab, considering he grew his own vegetables for his truck and what limited sustenance he required.  Piccolo sat at the small table he owned, perusing the map in front of him, using a marker to plot out a planned driving route, accounting for the vegetable-based diesel needed to make it to West City and potential delays. He heard Chichi stirring, and grunted a greeting. She had slowly began to let down her guard around him, as he had her and her son. She yawned, stretching her arms back over her head and scratching at her hair. His lips twitched in an involuntary grin at the utterly unkempt sight she made in the mornings. Hair a mess, eyes bleary.

“What’re you doin’?” she asked, yawning once more before setting about making tea over the small fire he kept burning. 

“Planning our route,” Piccolo grunted, flicking the map and surveying his decisions. She ambled over to peer over his shoulder. 

“Looks like you’re takin’ an awfully long route,” Chichi commented, voice doubtful. Piccolo’s ears flicked. “If you take Freeway 9, we’d be there in two days. Your roads take a week!”

Piccolo indicated 9 on the map.

“Last I saw before TV stopped making it out here, 9 was backed up and covered with abandoned cars. My truck can’t maneuver that. If we hit shit on the country roads, it’ll be easier to go around. What if we find wall to wall pileups on a bridge on 9?”

“Does your truck have a week of fuel?”

“If I bring an extra barrel, it’ll have twice that. And I absolutely am bringing extra fuel. We’ll only take what we need. As soon as your kid’s arm is all healed up, we’ll go. In the meantime, you need to learn t’shoot my guns, and drive my truck.” 

He waited for her to argue, having grown to somewhat enjoy their verbal sparring, but none came. Instead, she placed a hand on his, and leaned over to press her lips to his temple. 

“Thank you.”

Piccolo felt his face flush and he spluttered, standing abruptly and grumbling about needing to check on his truck. 


End file.
